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taxonomites2013-09-10 07:23 am
skinandbone) wrote in taxonomites2013-09-10 07:23 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
The situation has become dire.
The river, once a sweet froth of lemonade and scoops of rainbow sherbert, has dried up. For a little while, the candy bed of it oozed with a gooey stream of melted sherbert and weakly flopping fish, but this, too, dried in the bright lemon sun. The fish quickly died, and now, with said sunlight beating full upon them, have started to putrify.
<s>Everything</s> Almost everything here is sweet, and the rotten fish are no exception. The air is filled with a nauseatingly powerful smell of sticky candy, and now and then, the hot breeze stirs up swirling clouds of powdered sugar and flakes of dried sherbert. The overall effect is a bit like being in a snowstorm, except this one isn't cold, and also makes you want to throw up forever.
Other problems have cropped up. At first it seems a mild inconvienence, but even candy people need to drink: the taps and spigots of Taxon are dispensing nothing wetter than a few artistic sugar sparkles. All through the little village, people must figure out how to cope without hot and cold running cherry cola and froot jooce.
Worst of all, the Extras have started to sing again.
"I sing now of mountains
And fountains running down
Or I would, if I could,
And I'd smile if this weren't a frown
I sing now of flowers
With powers beyond bloom
Or I would, if I could
If not for sunless doom.
Instead I'll sing of dams
Damming up the river
And I'll wish we had some fish
that didn't make me shiver
The river!
Is dammed!
The fish!
Are dead!
I sing now of heroes
Who only want a drink
Something cold to sip and hold
And fish that didn't stink
I sing now of heroes
To travel up the height
To move the rocks and thus unblock
and set the river right
I sing now of heroes
crowned with a minty wreath
Those who give so others live
And so our fish can breathe
Climb up!
The mountain!
Unblock!
The fountain!
Climb up!
The!
Mountain!
Unblock!
The!
Fountain!"
The river, once a sweet froth of lemonade and scoops of rainbow sherbert, has dried up. For a little while, the candy bed of it oozed with a gooey stream of melted sherbert and weakly flopping fish, but this, too, dried in the bright lemon sun. The fish quickly died, and now, with said sunlight beating full upon them, have started to putrify.
<s>Everything</s> Almost everything here is sweet, and the rotten fish are no exception. The air is filled with a nauseatingly powerful smell of sticky candy, and now and then, the hot breeze stirs up swirling clouds of powdered sugar and flakes of dried sherbert. The overall effect is a bit like being in a snowstorm, except this one isn't cold, and also makes you want to throw up forever.
Other problems have cropped up. At first it seems a mild inconvienence, but even candy people need to drink: the taps and spigots of Taxon are dispensing nothing wetter than a few artistic sugar sparkles. All through the little village, people must figure out how to cope without hot and cold running cherry cola and froot jooce.
Worst of all, the Extras have started to sing again.
"I sing now of mountains
And fountains running down
Or I would, if I could,
And I'd smile if this weren't a frown
I sing now of flowers
With powers beyond bloom
Or I would, if I could
If not for sunless doom.
Instead I'll sing of dams
Damming up the river
And I'll wish we had some fish
that didn't make me shiver
The river!
Is dammed!
The fish!
Are dead!
I sing now of heroes
Who only want a drink
Something cold to sip and hold
And fish that didn't stink
I sing now of heroes
To travel up the height
To move the rocks and thus unblock
and set the river right
I sing now of heroes
crowned with a minty wreath
Those who give so others live
And so our fish can breathe
Climb up!
The mountain!
Unblock!
The fountain!
Climb up!
The!
Mountain!
Unblock!
The!
Fountain!"
no subject
CaneCain arches his apple-wedge eyebrows sitting atop his hard toffee eyes and listens to Smecker'sSmoker'snth complaint. He purses his apple lips and shrugs his apple core frame. His apple blossom hair rustles from his movements, which comes with the rhythmic clang oftinmetal buckets (and rather less of the sloshing about of apples, and more clanging and rolling thereof)."I'd offer to carry you, but then I think you'd yell at me, so I think I won't. For both our sake."
He pauses, peering up the slope. "Not to mention I'd get caramel all over you. Not all that fun in this context."